A small valley covered in a deep layer of snow. The moonlight trickles down through the thin layer of clouds and reflects off the snow and again off the clouds to give the glade a gentle, dim light. It is closed in by white pine trees and steep banks of snow. Under the snow is heard the trickle of the small stream that cut this valley. The falling snow is thick but gentle and everything is so quiet. The world is reduced to this; what can be seen, the silence that can't be heard, and the stillness that penetrates the soul. This is another world, a place where one might meet a fairy or a talking beaver. Ahead, further down the stream the trees form a kind of tunnel and its mysterious darkness is filled with promise. It is the kind of place where a unicorn could be drinking, but I know not to go in there. I have pushed the boundaries of reality far enough. To go in there is to gamble the promise, with disappointment the likely outcome, plus I might break through the ice and get my feet wet. Instead, I stand there drinking in the promise and imagining, and for a moment I am in this different world where squirrels really do talk. Then, from the tunnel of trees comes the sound of twigs snapping and snow crunching